The ones that love us never really leave us.

Luck can only get you so far.

Why had he never appreciated the miracle that he was, brain and nerve and bounding heart?

The poor things keep calling in those – those pumbles, I think they're called – you know, the ones who mend pipes and things – " "Plumbers?" " – exactly, yes, but of course they're flummoxed.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do ever - was write novels.

The poor are discussed as this homogeneous mash, like porridge. The idea that they might be individuals, and be where they are for very different, diverse reasons, again seems to escape some people.

We do not need magic to transform our world. We carry all of the power we need inside ourselves already.